


Broken Timelines We Didn't get to See

by tigereyes45



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Genkins made a mess of things, I have a tendency of killing these guys, Time Travel, but there wasn't enough angst or happy endings for me so, here we are, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigereyes45/pseuds/tigereyes45
Summary: In season 17 we saw many alternate timelines form and be fixed, but there were so many possibilities. Moments and changes we didn't get to see play out. Some of those will be in here.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Dick Simmons
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Broken Timelines We Didn't get to See

**Author's Note:**

> What if Genkins popped in, and took over Simmons just long enough to let Grif fall off the cliff?

Simmons doesn't remember letting go. All he remembers was Grif calling out his name. The weight of another's body, his life in his hands. He had blacked out and then Grif was gone. When he came too again Sarge was lifting him up. Roughly, Simmons was made to stand on his own two feet again. Words jostle through his ears and ring in his head without any permanence. Tucker was talking, Sarge probably responded callously. The older man still has a firm grip on his shoulder.

He could feel his eyes widening as his vision grows blurred. The cliff was still there, but suddenly there were two of them. Two edges, two Grifs, two deaths, but there was only one him. One Simmons that had let go, but can’t remember it. With a cruel hand, his mind was filling in the blanks. With a fierce clarity, he can recall dropping Grif as if he actually remembers doing it. The first noise to break through the barrier of his mind’s torture was the snow crunching up below Tucker’s feet.

Double vision dissipates as his eyes focus on the turquoise, or maybe an aquamarine shade of blue. They square in on Tucker’s shoulders as the blue bends down and looks over the cliff. As if time was somehow moving slower Simmons watched in slow motion as Tucker stands back up. With blood rushing up to roar in his ears Simmons holds his breath as Tucker shakes his head.

Grif was gone, and it was he killed him.

Sarge was the first to brush that off. After his initial joy, the red soldier spent many an hour talking Simmons back to the present. He didn’t tell Simmons that he should be proud for killing Grif. In fact, Sarge was determined to blame the entire mishap on the Meta. Occasionally he would throw Washington in there to take some of the blame. Once he even tried to say it was Grif’s fault for not reacting fast enough. When Simmons took their rations for the night and threw them at the man in a fit, Sarge clammed up. He never tried to blame it on Grif again. The one person who was never at fault for it was him. Even though Simmons was sure it was his hands that let go first. When it was his spindly arms that weren’t strong enough to lift him. When he could have thrown Grif away from the slipping Meta, but he didn’t. Yet somehow it wasn’t  _ his  _ fault.

They kept following the blues. The drama was enough to keep Simmons busy most days. It let his mind remain numb as he slowly recovered. Washington was a lot more help then anyone thought he would be. Even before Donut came back he was quick to try and appease the reds and blues. It was Wash who recommended Simmons took up a new hobby. So that was how Simmons started cooking. He cooked and cooked and when Donut got back he helped by decorating the food. Doc suggested it may not be the healthiest coping mechanism, but he used to have a crazy AI in his head so Simmons didn’t bother trying to listen.

The dish he made most was pizza. How he managed to make pizza with their limited resources he still doesn’t know, but there always seemed to be enough whenever he looked. So he cooks, and then he leads, and this alternate timeline that he has no idea he didn’t cause, let alone that he was living in it, Simmons lives a long time. The nightmares never stopped. They differentiated sometimes, but they never stopped. At one point the helmet wasn’t on Grif anymore. It was always his face. Bruised, bleeding, sometimes just plain scared. One time he was angry cursed him. He didn’t sleep again for thirty hours after that one. The dream got longer, the death slower, all the while Grif kept changing. He always changed.

In all the years after, Simmons eventually forgot everything about Grif’s face. The weight in his hands, the bright orange he always wore, those were the details that stayed with him forever. Even the sudden absence afterward. It was an emptiness that never left.


End file.
